Waterlogged
by Neocolai
Summary: "They were experimenting. Trying to break us. It was only a matter of time before they tried waterboarding." The Klingons have a little time and a couple of prisoners. As he waits for news on Malcolm's condition, Trip recounts two weeks of torment. (Genfic, No Pairings)
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary** : "They were experimenting. Trying to break us. It was only a matter of time before they tried waterboarding."_ The Klingons have a little time and a couple of prisoners. As he waits for news on Malcolm's condition, Trip recounts two weeks of torment.

* * *

 _Consider this a non-November entry for "Drown Malcolm Month." I became rather obsessed with Malcolm's aquaphobia and I wanted to explore his psych a little bit and see if he could handle a brief period of water torture. I'm pleased to say that Malcolm survived the experiment and is more or less his melodramatic self, although he hasn't been speaking to me lately. Huh, wonder what upset him..._

 _ **Disclaimer** : I own nothing related to Star Trek, its voyages, or the past crew members of the Enterprise. I do have in my possession a couple of my sister's action figures. Sadly, the most profit I'll make is if I toss them onto a yard sale table for twenty-five cents apiece._

 _All mistakes are my own._

* * *

Klingon Numbers in this Chapter:

Soch-maH jav - Seventy-Six

Soch-maH Soch - Seventy-Seven

Soch-maH chorgh - Seventy-Eight

Hut-maH wa - Ninety-One

Hut-maH cha - Ninety-Two

Hut-maH wej - Ninety-Three

Hut-maH jav - Ninety-Six

* * *

He doesn't know how long it's been. He doesn't know if they've been proclaimed dead, or if the Enterprise will even attempt to reclaim their bodies. He doesn't know if there will be anything _left_ to recover, once the Klingons have finished with them.

Strange part is, he doesn't even know what the Klingons _want._

His head hurts - hasn't stopped since they turned up the heat in this dank, cramped cell - and he hasn't moved from where they tossed him after the last session. Two more fingers on his right hand are angled sharply to the left. One of them seems to hang, dangling on a puffy skein of skin and muscle. Probably no joint left to support it. He stopped feeling nauseated about _that_ after the fifth round or so.

Breathing in sharply, he snorts, purging a blood clot from his nose. Fresh ooze trickles down his chin and he instinctively brushes it against his shoulder. Finally, he can breathe a little. His ribs are intact - they haven't started the life-threatening injuries yet - but he figures his body is one swollen bruise. The Klingons know how to throw a punch without battering anything internal. It's been … how many sessions? How many days? Trip only knows that he hasn't sat down or lain comfortably in what feels like weeks. The Klingons singled out nerves and pressure points - he should probably admire their knowledge of human anatomy - but they didn't start snapping fingers until recently. The first one freaked him out. He nearly bit through his tongue focusing on _not begging_ them to leave his hands alone. The second finger they almost….

Ah, there's the nausea again. Curling onto his side, Trip coughs out bile and groans as inflamed muscles clamp up, jolting in time with his heaves, racking him from the base of his skull to his shoulder joints. What he wouldn't give for an Andorian ale and an analgesic.

The cell door beside his own swishes. He can't see anything outside of the crude metal walls, but he can hear his captors' gutteral laughter, accompanying the soggy splat of a drenched body hitting the floor, and the wheezing coughs of someone who's been submerged past the point of human tolerance - again.

"Malcolm?" Trip doesn't wait for the guards to leave before he crawls to the cell wall that separates them. He hears more coughing, and the wretched splutter of someone vomiting water. Finally Malcolm answers him.

"I don't think we have to worry about sanitation in this place."

Huffing, Trip weighs the options of chiding his friend's dry optimism versus feeling relieved that he's still making quips. The lieutenant started baiting the Klingons early, trying to draw their attention from Trip, but his stupid bravado only earned him a bruised larynx and a few more knocks to the head. The Klingons wouldn't be distracted from the appeal of two prisoners to batter to death.

Listening to Malcolm's rasp, Trip wishes the Klingons would be more forgetful of methods that _did work_. They've worked their way up several levels by now, from sleep deprivation to ramming hot needles under his fingernails to - Trip's personal horror - grotesquely dislocating a few joints. He hasn't lost his mind in a fit of screaming just yet, but that may only be a matter of time. If they follow through on that threat and take a welding torch to his eye….

But for Malcolm, those primary methods ended a long time ago. Ninety-six seconds changed everything.

What Trip wouldn't give to buy that time for his friend. Over and over and over again…..

* * *

 _It started with a simple away mission. (Isn't that how he always looks back - a simple morning, an average day, a mere, ordinary circumstance - something that any other time, he'd placidly overlook? They've been on more infiltration missions and botched up rescues than Trip can count, and he still nails this one down to a blase, routine happenstance.)_

 _They stopped to replenish the reserves for the antimatter generator. (Strange, Trip can't even remember the name of the planet anymore. Some place with forests and a small cove, and such an oxygen-rich atmosphere that the crewmembers were only allowed to remain on the surface without breathing apparatuses for short periods of time.) Once the last shipment was safely stowed onboard, he and Malcolm detoured to the cove to see if the local flying insects really did reach the size of dinner plates. Malcolm had just crouched down to inspect a butterfly with the wingspan of both his hands when Trip felt a sharp pain in his neck - much akin to the nip of an oversized mosquito._

 _He reached for the insect just as a vault of dizziness made him wonder if he shouldn't have left his breathing apparatus behind. Even as he stepped back, Malcolm smoothly sprang to his feet and fired just past his ear. Something heavy collapsed into the foliage and Trip fell on top of it, blinking as a large fern swelled and replicated itself into three identical copies. Someone growled a curse. Malcolm yelped. Pushing himself up on shaky arms, Trip focused on the sounds, his fingers sliding over his phaser as he squinted at two - no four - images of the lieutenant braced against a Klingon, his right arm wrenched behind his back._

 _Before Trip could force his limp fingers to cooperate, his hand was kicked away from his weapon. Colors spiralled into a disorientating kaleidoscope and he squeezed his eyes shut, welcoming the perfect blackness._

* * *

That was day one. The day before Trip finds himself in a five-by-six holding cell, with no view of the outer halls, and no sound except for muffled conversation whenever he and Malcolm are both conscious. Not that there's much to talk about in these box cages.

There's a six-inch grate in the floor and some sort of spigot on the ceiling way overhead. No bunk, no food hatch, no water. The Klingons haul Trip out of the cell routinely the first two days. The door swishes open and he is hustled out, forced to walk the length of the hall, all the way to the chamber where he can see machines and wicked-looking tools, as though they want him to know what is coming and anticipate the worst. Trip tries to estimate the minutes between rounds, but the scheduled walks are intentionally erratic. He quickly loses track of time.

As far as he can tell, this "exercise routine" takes place four or five times an hour - never long enough for him to snatch more than five minutes of sleep. The same is happening to Malcolm, judging by the swish of his cell door opening, but they are never taken out at the same time.

\- Until the first time when they're ushered into the chamber together. Surrounded by the mockery of their captors, they're pushed into the center of the room, blindfolded, and chained upright. Evidently it's a sort of game - one Klingon takes a turn sneaking around, while the prisoners try to assess who is about to feel the punch and from where. Jeers follow if someone makes a pained grunt.

They're both log-tired, dehydrated, and sensory-deprived. It isn't long before Trip's exercising some multilingual curses, and Malcolm is using some words that Hoshi would deck him for if she heard him muttering in front of the younger crewmen. At one point Trip hears the thud of a boot on flesh, and he smirks when he realizes that it's a Klingon who hollers. He's right proud of Malcolm's aim, even though the end result is that their bare feet are soon scrabbling for purchase on a steel-grated floor.

Steel-grated. Like the sort of flooring used for ancient medical decks; the kind that prove mighty convenient for draining blood.

The Klingons don't draw blood on the first session, however. Heck, they don't even beat out a tooth. They pull their punches effectively, raising swollen lumps and purple masses that throb as Trip lays alone in his cell, but they leave their prisoners in one piece.

That's only the first session.

By session two, the blindfolds aren't utilized. The prisoners are chained facing away from one another, and Trip struggles between focusing on his captors as they circle him with iron-clad fists, and looking over his shoulder whenever Malcolm bites down a holler. The Klingons strike the same marks, metal thunking into tender flesh, and they heartily congratulate one another whenever an old bruise bursts into a patch of trickling blood and broken flesh. They aim to pulverize their captives this time, splitting skin over Trip's eyebrows; his jaw; shoulder blades; shins; everywhere they can find a bony prominence. He sees a fist draw back just before his nose is crushed, and spends the rest of that session trying to breathe between cracked lips.

They're both doused with water, washing away old and fresh blood, and Tucker sucks at the moisture as it runs down his limbs. His parched mouth feels relief - marginally - and he hears one of the Klingons tell his companion, "Next time," before he is dragged back to his cell.

"What do you suppose they mean by that? 'Next time?'" Malcolm murmurs, pulling Tucker from an oblivious haze.

"Dunno," Trip mumbles. He doesn't want to know. Doesn't care. He just wants to shut his eyes until the pain melts away.

If only he'd been more attentive to the apprehension in Malcolm's voice. Maybe he could've distracted him. Ordered him not to panic. Kept him going longer than that sparse minute and a half before everything went downhill.

If only.

* * *

Session three can't have been that long after the last beating, but it's long enough that Trip's skin feels stretched and he doesn't have enough moisture to wet his split lips. He's dragged into the chamber and thrown to his knees, followed by Malcolm on his right. A bucket of water is placed in front of him.

"Have a drink, _petaQ_ ," the Klingon behind him coaxes.

Malcolm draws in a hiss and faintly shakes his head. Grimly Trip takes a deep breath and clamps his jaw, averting his eyes from the tempting gleam of clear, fresh water. Any minute now, his resistance won't matter. The Klingons will still -

Before he can finish the thought, gnarly fingers grab his hair and thrust his head forward. Water gushes past his ears, swishing his hair, muffling all but his pounding heart. He counts the seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. The fingers adjust and he is hauled backward, barely emitting a gasp before water closes around him again. Fifteen. Twenty-five. Forty. He didn't even have time to draw half a breath! At a minute and five seconds he's balking against his captor, hands twisting futilely against their bonds as his body demands air.

One minute and fifteen seconds. He's yanked to the surface, held for a space of five seconds, and thrust under again. He can no longer count heartbeats; his blood is thundering to escape his chest and his vision swings between swarms of brown and an expanse of watery grey. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Forty-five. Another breach for air. There's no predicting the times between desperate gasps. He's pulled back again and catches a brief glimpse of Malcolm under the water, two Klingons holding him down.

Twenty seconds. One minute. One minute and ten. He's no longer thirsty. In fact, he never wants to see a swimming pool again.

He's raised to the sounds of riotous laughter, and dimly hears the seconds being repeated around him.

"Soch-maH jav! Soch-maH Soch! Soch-maH chorgh!"

Momentarily forgotten, he leans against the Klingon's legs, looking towards Malcolm. Instantly his fatigue vanishes and he surges to his knees, choking on a curse. "You're killing him!"

Wracking against his captors, Malcolm is twisting; bucking; thrashing; kicking out until a third Klingon grapples for his legs. The bucket almost capsizes twice, and the Klingons holler for more water, hollering in mirth as it splashes over the lieutenant's head.

"Hut-maH wa! Hut-maH cha! Hut-maH wej!"

Ninety-four. Ninety-five. Ninety-

Throwing himself to the side, Malcolm temporarily shakes off the Klingon latched onto his left shoulder. He sucks in air and releases it in a frantic yell, bashing his head into the second Klingon's skull. There's no level-headed control that Trip associates with the meticulous head of security. This man is fearsome; uncontrollable; he's positively wild.

"Hut-maH jav!" the lead Klingon crows.

Ninety-six. Ninety-six seconds for the impenetrable Malcolm to lose control. Ninety-six seconds for panic to set in. Ninety-six seconds for him to break free, expressing his terror in a burst of inhumane strength.

Ninety-six seconds for the Klingons to grasp the upper hand.

If only Trip had known what would follow...

* * *

"Malcolm." Wincing at the weak, clogged gasps behind the wall, Trip leans against the metal and calls again. "Lieutenant Reed, respond."

"Still here," comes the rasping reply. There isn't even a "Sir" attached this time - Malcolm lost energy for such formalities a few sessions ago. He's slowly drowning, filling his lungs each new round, lying soaked and chilled when he's allowed to rest. Pneumonia is inevitable. Trip isn't sure if he'll make it long enough for Phlox to diagnose it. Every session it's a little longer; a little more creative. One day they won't pull him out in time to pump the water out of his lungs. One day it will only be Trip waiting in his cell. One day...

No. He won't think like that. The Enterprise _will_ find them. It's only a matter of time. They just have to hold on and keep their mouths shut until….

Hang it all, Trip doesn't even know what the Klingon's _want!_ Is this a game for them; dredging two officers to the point of death? Or is it a message to send back to Starfleet? They've upped their game with Trip - he's pretty sure he's going to holler uncontrollably if they dislocate a knee tomorrow - but Malcolm won't be any use to them the longer they keep this up. They're drowning him, bit by bit, session by session, and a waterlogged corpse makes for a poor bargaining chip.

"Bastards, what do you want from us?" Trip whispers.

"Trip…." Malcolm calls to him, his voice as raw as Trip's throat feels. "Tell Maddie that…."

"We've been through this already!" Trip snaps. "I'm not relaying anyone's last messages. As soon as the captain finds us you can tell her yourself."

He can picture Reed's melancholy hunch as the security officer weighs his odds. "S'fine. It's all in my cabin, anyways."

Of course. After their past argument in the shuttlepod, the realist would have _pre-recorded_ all of his last words before embarking on another mission. But there won't be any need for them. Not this time.

"A little water won't kill you," Trip says, only half-heartedly, because it wasn't two sessions past when they held Malcolm's face in two inches of water until he stopped struggling. Tucker will never forget how still his friend lay, his face turned to the side, limp hands outstretched, dark hair curling in a soft halo around him.

"I beg to differ, Sir," Malcolm says thickly, as though reliving the same memory.

Closing his eyes, Trip thunks his head against the wall. "Just hold on," he implores. "They'll come for us. It won't be long now."

Because if the captain twiddles his thumbs for too much longer, it will already be too late.

* * *

There's a box inside of the torture chamber. Solid metal, except for the grate in the bottom, it measures about four feet long and two and a half feet wide. Just big enough to cram a man in there if he scrunches up tight.

Trip hates that box.

The Klingons wrench his thumb back until he screams. They whip the soles of his feet and force him to hobble on shards of hot metal. They give him drugs to accentuate the pain and laugh when he hollers over a tiny slice in his thumb.

But they don't try anything new with Reed. They merely _perfect_ their methods.

The box had already been invented for such a fear. Apparently waterlogging isn't all that new among Klingons. Trip can only imagine being stuffed into an antique school locker and thrown into a pool. That's the best he can describe it as the Klingons cram Malcolm's lean frame into the compartment and pull back a panel in the floor, revealing a chamber that's inches larger than the box's frame, sloshing over with tepid liquid. Trip screams louder than necessary as they slide a needle between the bones in his wrist, and he still can't drown out the sounds of Malcolm's panic.

Over and over, it's the same. Tirelessly. Predictably. He can hear Malcolm's nails scrape against the casing as the box slowly lowers into the water. He can envision the lieutenant twisting around, pressing his face against the ceiling as water floods his small cavern. The moment he is fully submerged, the count begins.

 _Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight._ Trip counts in time with the thudding of his overwhelmed pulse. _Forty-one. Forty-two._ There isn't much room in the box, but he can still hear Malcolm's fists dully bat against the plating. _Eighty-six, eighty-seven..._

They never go past ninety-six. It's absurd - Trip knows that in ordinary circumstances Malcolm can hold his breath for longer above ground, and everyone knows that the pressure makes it easier to hold one's breath underwater, but the repeated dunkings and Malcolm's abundant panic made them initially falter at this number, and now it is but one more game.

At ninety-six exactly the box is slowly cranked upwards, allowing one breath - two at most - before it is dropped under the surface. _Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six…._

They throw Trip down for a respite. The box drops again. _Ninety-four, ninety-five…._

Ten episodes under the water. Sixteen minutes with minimum air. When they finally drag Reed out of the box, he is a pathetic mass of sodden uniform and splayed dark hair. His body doesn't even shiver; he's past the point of shock.

They're thrown into their cells without ceremony. A hunk of something unrecognizable is flung at the wall above Trip's head, and he hears a similar echo in Reed's cell. He doubts that the man even knows it is there. Fumbling for the hard chunk - something foul and crumbly, but it tastes like salted jerky if Trip imagines hard enough - he gnaws at it with aching jaws and reminds himself that this is going to be over soon enough. He has to keep up his strength. When rescue comes, he will be ready.

"Trip?" There's a listless, congested sigh.

Instantly Trip presses himself against the wall. "Right here, Malcolm."

For a minute, all he can hear is the rattle of fluid as Malcolm breathes. "Trip, I … I think…."

"Save it." Helpless, Trip clamps his teeth through his lower lip, the only alternative to screaming at Reed that he is not going to die, he won't _let_ it happen, and it'll only make things worse if he keeps talking like this. "Just hold on a little longer, Malcolm."

The rasp isn't any better. Trip hates the sound. "If we … if I don't…."

"I made that an order, Lieutenant!" He wants to slam a fist into the wall - into Reed's nose if that makes him see any more sense - but his crooked fingers have suffered enough. _Don't you dare talk like that, Malcolm! I won't let them kill you. I won't let them win._

"Don't blame you," Malcolm says strongly. "Whatever happens, I don't….."

 _Neither do I blame you,_ Trip wants to say. But he can't give Malcolm any false sense of reassurance - not when he's afraid that one of these days the lieutenant might just forget his training and take a deep gulp, and by the time ninety-six seconds are up it'll be ninety-seconds too late to revive him. So instead, he gives another order. "If I hear one more jaw about dying, I'll personally request that you're demoted to crewman. We'll see how that looks on your _perfect report_."

He knows that the threat will sting. He also hopes that it will make Malcolm angry. There's nothing better to liven the soul than a bit of honest rage, and Malcolm is getting to be too complacent about his possible demise for Trip's comfort. If he has to drag, intimidate, blackmail, and bully the lieutenant through the aftermath of each session just to be sure he's still hanging around when the search party appears….

He might hate himself for it afterwards, but he'll do it whatever it takes.

* * *

The next session, the Klingons don't bother trying to cram a writhing Malcolm into the box. Instead, four Klingons each grab a swinging limb and pin it to the floor. A fifth Klingon takes a wet cloth and spreads it over the lieutenant's face, slowly trickling water over his mouth and nose.

It's no different than the box, the way Malcolm flops helplessly and tries to hold his breath for each count.

 _Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five…._

Trip bellows as his right knee is slammed out of place. After that he can't think around the white haze long enough to count the seconds.

* * *

He can't move. Can't hardly even swallow. Breathing is a forced exercise of survival.

"Trip..."

He doesn't care what Malcolm was going to say - heck, he could have been about to inquire on the weather, and Tucker would've knocked him halfway across the cell if he could just make a fist.

"Shut up, Malcolm!"

Silence falls. Trip craves it, and hates it. He just wants _everything_ to stop. The pain; the thirst; the anguish of watching; the not knowing when it will ever end.

He hears a slight shifting, and then the gentle rap of knuckles against the other wall. Malcolm's calm rasp is the best thing he's heard in a long while.

"I'm here, Trip."


	2. Chapter 2

Commotion wakes him. Hollers. Alarms. Commands. The prison cells are lit with a blinking red glow. Groaning, Trip brushes his wrist over his blood-caked nose.

"They're here!" Malcolm's shout is barely a wheeze, and he can scarcely hear it over the blaring alerts. "Trip, can you hear me? The ship's under attack! It must be - "

Whatever he was going to say is cut off as Trip's door flies open. He raises his head, hoping against hope that it's Captain Archer about to sack him for landing himself in trouble - again. Instead he sees stocky, armored legs braced under a heavy gun. Grimly Trip swallows. Apparently the Klingons won't wait for rescue to find their captives. They're going to finish him off before Starfleet can disable their ship.

 _Good serving under you, Captain,_ Trip thinks, bracing himself for the laser that will finish his career.

Chuckling, the Klingon looks down at Trip's twisted leg and nudges it with his gun. He looks over his shoulder and nods to someone else. "Put the other one in here."

Another prisoner? Trip's heart sinks. One more hostage. Who else is going to die in this futile rescue attempt?

He hollers as a slim figure bowls into him, jarring his dislocated knee and throwing the white curtain before his eyes. There's a clang of bolting metal, a flurry of frantic apologies, and the buoyancy of cautious hands lifting him from the floor. Groaning, Trip sinks into the other man's shoulder.

"Got you too, huh?" he mutters.

There's a soft laugh, and an unmistakably British drawl. "Still here, Commander."

Blinking owlishly, Trip stares at his cellmate. "What t'heck r'you doin' n'here?"

"Perhaps they presume it's easier to guard one cell." Malcolm's voice breaks off in a wet cough. Hastily he settles Trip down and pulls away, bending double in a hacking fit. The hoarse, croaking gasps tell Trip everything he doesn't want to hear: without medical attention soon, Malcolm won't be capable of catching his breath.

He finds it morbid and terrifying that he starts counting the seconds until Malcolm leans back and inhales. _Forty-four, forty-five…._ The fit lasts barely a minute, but by the end of it Malcolm is swaying on his knees, clinging to the wall for support.

"Sorry," he grates, feebly rubbing his chest. "Didn't … expect… that…."

Trip wants to say something - anything - that will be meaningful in these last hours. _It doesn't matter as long as we both go out together… No better man to have alongside me in the end… No better friend…._ Funny, words seem cheap at a moment like this. His first attempt to speak is smothered in a heavy moan as his ribcage seizes, cutting off his air.

Wordlessly Malcolm scoots over and lifts him again, coughing softly from the exertion as he lifts Trip's shoulders against his chest. It's easier to breathe now, at least.

"I suppose … we… wait for the calvary," Malcolm muses. What a pathetic duo they make, flopped against a Klingon cell wall, bloody, bruised and half drowned in phlegm and blood. Trip huffs and lets his eyes shutter.

"No better friend….." he mumbles.

This time it's Malcolm who laughs. "Can't… lose hope now. They're coming."

 _Now who's the optimist?_ Trip doesn't have the energy to say it, and he can't even punch a daisy at this point, so he nudges Malcolm with his elbow instead.

He almost thinks they could stay there, holding on to one another like the brothers that neither ever had, until the Klingons finish them off. A slight thrum of a pipe startles him out of his reverie. The thrum rattles into a pressurized roar, and suddenly the spigot overhead rattles to life. Malcolm shouts and ducks over him just as water gushes from the ceiling.

Suddenly Trip knows why the grate in the floor is so small.

They're right on the verge of being rescued, and they're about to drown in their own holding cell.

* * *

Malcolm ought to be panicking right now. By every logical right and reason, Malcolm _should_ start panicking. Water spews from the overhead spigot, drenching both lieutenant and commander, puddling on the cell floor in the worst indoor cloudburst that Trip has ever seen. Within thirty seconds the flow of water overwhelms the small drain and begins gathering in inches.

Shaking wet hair out of his face, Malcolm scrambles backwards, heedless of Trip's outcry as he drags the engineer with him. Already the water has covered his feet. At the measured output, they have five minutes before it reaches waist-level. If that.

 _So this is how it feels,_ Trip thinks, howling as his leg jounces against the floor. _Drowning in a small space. No wonder Malcolm freaked out during the waterboarding session._

Ninety-six seconds. Ninety-six until the water reaches the knees of a crouched man. Ninety-six more until it reaches his shoulders. By then, Trip won't have enough leverage to breathe.

 _A little water won't kill you._ He snorts, finding dull humor in his own irony. He's about to die, beached like an overturned turtle, with a gimpy leg and useless fingers. _Does it hurt to drown? Or is it like going to sleep, like some people say?_

He remembers screaming for air while a hand braces his head under the water. Burning lungs and an aching throat. Malcolm thrashing like a cat on bath day, terrified every time they drag him over to the box.

There's no way that drowning doesn't hurt.

The water is lapping his chest now, thundering over his head in a merciless, stinging torrent. Ludicrously Trip thinks, _At least I finally get enough to drink._

He tries to laugh about it, one last time, but the gurgle ends in a scream as Malcolm's hands brace under his shoulders and tug. Pain racks from his legs to his spinal cord as his chest clears the water and he's braced, trembling, against Malcolm's crouched form.

"S-Sorry," Malcolm wheezes, adjusting his grip. "Forgot. M-Mind the leg."

Dazed as he is, Trip knows _exactly_ what Malcolm is doing. "D-Down," he gasps, batting ineffectively at the lieutenant's arm. _Would you stop playing hero for once? Dragging this out isn't going to make it any easier!_

"Fraid I c-can't make out what … what you're saying," Malcolm lies blithely, raising them both another inch above the water. Soon enough he will be standing, bearing all of Trip's weight, and he's barely holding himself together as it is.

"Won't…." _be able to_ "Breathe…" _carrying me like this!_

Malcolm stumbles to his full height, keeping his eyes fixed on the sealed door. "Just long enough."

"What..." _happened to your fear_ "Do you think..." _you can actually get us out of here "_ You're doing...?" _everything you can, and even if it won't save us, I'm grateful._

Scanning the overhead spigot, Malcolm adjusts his grip. "Ninety-six seconds," he whispers to himself.

Before Trip can shout at him to have done with the blasted count already, Malcolm crouches low and hurls the engineer over his shoulder. Water splashes into Trip's mouth and for a few seconds the cell is cloaked in merciful black.

* * *

He comes to swiftly as his broken hand bashes against the wall, wrenching a sound from his throat that borders between a yelping beagle and a deranged alley cat. Malcolm curses and flounders beneath him.

"S-Sorry," the lieutenant chatters, grunting as he feels along the wall. "T-Try not t-to move."

 _What the heck are you doing?_ Trip mentally bellows. The only sound he makes is another indignant moan.

"Alm-most there, S-Sir," Malcolm says. There it is again - that churlishly polite ' _Yes Sir, No Sir, Sorry Sir'_ attitude that always sees to follow an indirect form of rebellion or a dismal sense of failure. Trip isn't in the mood for either of those drama queen acts. He dips lower over Malcolm's shoulder, determined to slide off this fun-go-round and make his own sense of the situation in a more comfortable position - preferably on the stability of the cell floor.

"I wouldn't d-do that," Malcolm warns him coolly. He grips another carved line in the wall, hauling himself up, and it finally occurs to Trip that the lieutenant isn't scouting for an electric panel to open the door - he's climbing.

"There's four f-feet of water," Malcolm says, heaving himself up to the next finger hold. His foot slips and he shouts, nearly plummeting the scant distance. From his downward position Trip can see blood well up from a ripped toenail. "We fall down there," Malcolm says grimly, "And n-neither of us is c-coming back."

Unspoken, he reports, _I don't have the strength for another climb._

Relaxing as much as the spasms permit, Trip leans to the right, spreading his weight more evenly across Malcolm's shoulder. The fool isn't going to set him down, and while he's grateful that he's still breathing, he knows that he's jeopardizing his friend's only chance to survive. No matter how much optimism Trip ices onto this pineapple cake of a disaster, he's accepted that there's no way Starfleet is going to find them alive. He doubts that Malcolm will respond well to him belly-flopping off his shoulder, however; most likely the lieutenant will dive after him and then they'll both drown, floundering at the bottom. Besides, he's not yet ready to give up without a fight.

"C-Can't be much l-longer," Malcolm grates out. He hesitates, gathering himself, and then lunges. There's a terrible sense of falling and a jolt that clacks Trip's teeth together. For an instant he's a howling pendulum across Malcolm's shoulder, swaying back and forth, digging his elbows into the lieutenant's ribs as he tries to stop himself from plunging head-first into the pattering lake. They've reached the top, he realizes. Malcolm hangs precariously, bare feet pressed against the opposite wall, bearing the weight of two as he clings to the spigot that pelts them both with tepid water. The water level has risen to a tall man's shoulders. It slaps at his ankles, taunting him with inescapable demise.

"J-Just hold on, Commander," Malcolm implores. Trip's can hear the husk of the cough he's suppressing. He can't see above Malcolm's waistline, but the tremors in the lieutenant's body speak for him. Trip can imagine the rest. Malcolm probably has his face turned away to avoid the worst of the cascade. His arms are rippling with strain, and his hands burn as they are forced to bear the weight of two. (Scant as their rations have been lately, neither officer is a lightweight.) He's struggling for each breath, his limited oxygen capacity further cut off by the exertion of the climb and the body hanging from his shoulders. His feet - well, Trip can see those, and they're bleached white from the pressure, chaffed from clinging to the armored walls.

 _Just_ _hold on._ As if _he_ can brace Malcolm's arms by will alone. It should be both of them hanging to the walls, taking turns bearing the other's weight and bolstering one another with assurances that help _will_ find them in time. This time, Trip is as useless as a manican in a uniform, while Malcolm alone is forced to rescue his sorry hide. It was never meant to be like this. He's the _commander_ \- he should be the one calling the lead, not waiting for death to take them both.

"It's all right, S-Sir." It seems as though Malcolm is talking to himself now, as though Trip has been replaced with every faceless superior in the lieutenant's past. "I c-can hold on."

 _It's okay,_ Trip wants to tell him - as if he'd be heard above the water spattering over them both. _You can let go, Lieutenant. No one's going to think of you as anything less than a hero by now._

For a man who demonstrated an innate fear of water during his captivity, the lieutenant is doing an admirable job of keeping his senses about him. Perhaps he made a mistake in joining Starfleet. Earth's navy forces lost a fine officer when he commissioned aboard the Enterprise.

"S-Sir," Malcolm probes, his voice barely a hiss past clenched teeth, "If you c-can h-hear me... perhaps you should… m-move yourself higher. Won't be... long now…"

Not long before the water reaches Malcolm's waist and starts toying with Trip's hair. He sees Malcolm's feet adjust against the far wall, raising the man to a forced seated position. There's a sort of crook created in his posture that will allow Trip to scoot back and keep his head at Malcolm's shoulder level. His weight will be fully settled on the lieutenant's legs, and those are already shaking apart.

As though sensing his concern, Malcolm stutters, "I c-can t-take it, Sir."

What a mercy that he's hanging out with Starfleet's Tactical Officer, who is required to keep himself in excellent shape. If Hoshi had been in this position he would have crushed her twenty minutes ago.

Digging in his elbows, feeling for the accompanying shift as Malcolm compensates for the movement, Trip inches backwards until he's nestled back against the lieutenant's shoulder. He can see Malcolm's face now, and it only serves to remind him how helpless he is and the impossibility of what his friend is trying to do. There's no panic in steely blue eyes. There's no room for anything but the anguish and determination to hold on. Malcolm's entire body is one rippling mass. Somewhere he keeps drawing on hidden strength, forcing it into his white-knuckled hands, but it won't last much longer. His body can't hold up. His hands will release without his consent and he'll be dragged down, incapable of so much as holding his head above the water. They'll both probably hit the bottom at the same time. The only question will be who inhales first.

But at least… at least this way they'll be together. Neither of them will have to die alone.

"S-Sorry, Sir," Malcolm says, and suddenly there's fear in his eyes as his arms begin to jerk. "I c-can… I can do it!"

Trip braces himself, because he knows that Malcolm _can't_. His body has reached the end of its strength. Lieutenant Reed has served to the very last, with every ounce of life that he has to offer, and now it is time to accept that death comes for them eventually. _Never a better officer. Never a better friend._

Malcolm cries out once, and then the water closes over Trip's head. He can feel Malcolm's limbs batting against him, weak and uncontrollable, as if the lieutenant is _still_ trying to bring him to the surface. He succeeds to a point - both hands manage to lock around Trip's waist, and there's an instant of soft red light as Malcolm kicks above the waterline, but the glimpse is swiftly covered in a grey filter. Trip holds his breath, gritting his teeth to the last moment, but he can feel Malcolm jerking around him, using up his precious air in one last venture to the surface.

He doesn't make it.

Bubbles sift around Trip's ears and he knows who is going to die first. Malcolm's struggles become less coordinated and soon enough he is drifting, his hands falling away from Trip's waist. The red light is merely a firefly's glow overhead. Solid metal meets Trip's shoulders just as Malcolm's body tumbles beside him. The lieutenant's eyes are closed.

For once, there is no pain.

Trip finally inhales and lets the water claim him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Klingon Insults in this chapter:_

 _baktag - General Insult_

 _bIHnuch - Coward_

 _Qa'Hom - a Small Animal_

 _petaQ - Useless/Garbage_

 _Ha'DIbaH - Animal_

* * *

He opens his eyes to a gentle, white glow. There's softness under his head and the air is clean and slightly chemicalized. He breathes deeply and feels no pain.

Dying is oddly convenient, Trip considers. He always thought he would go out with a bang - probably the violent explosion of a warp drive breach. Drowning was apparently as everyone said - a deep breath, a pressure in the lungs, and then waking up in the big, white expanse of... weird light fixings in a conveniently technological ceiling plate.

"A far cry from heaven, I assure you," drawls the familiar voice he never thought he'd hear again. "But given that you were aboard a Klingon vessel, I suppose it is comparable."

"Phlox?" The croak is no better than whatever garble he'd made earlier. Flopping his arms pathetically, Trip clears his throat and tries again. "You're -"

Ah, there's the pain. He looks down at his right arm and swallows, blanching at the swathes of white linen and electronic splints. "What happened?"

"Your injuries were rather overwhelming," Phlox says cryptically, hovering a medscanner over Trip's chest. "Not to mention you nearly drowned in a Klingon holding cell. You had to receive cardiopulmonary resuscitation, courtesy of the captain. You're lucky to be alive."

Memories flood Trip like the gush of water up his nostrils. Useless hands. His knee wrenching until he thought it would be torn off. Malcolm paddling as though he could still reach the surface.

"Malcolm?" Trip rasps. "Where is he?"

Phlox's lips clamp down as he adjusts his scanner minutely. "He was still breathing, last I checked," he says vaguely. "He's suffered prolonged exposure to the water, strained ligaments, and some sort of virus from the Klingon vessel. The pneumonia is... tricky to shake, but I'm fairly certain he'll pull through. He's never been held down for long."

"Is he awake?" Trip asks, giddiness rushing over him. Alive. They're both alive, and they're safely aboard the Enterprise. "Has he said anything?"

"Given the circumstances, I've kept him in an induced coma," Phlox admits. "He's breathed more water than air for a prolonged period of time; it's best to let the antibodies run their course."

"How long were we missing?" Trip asks, sinking back against the bunk. How many sessions? How many days?

"Nearly two weeks," Phlox says, making a few adjustments to the scanner. "There were falsified reports claiming there were no hostiles in the area. When you failed to make contact after the designated two hours a search party was sent out. They found Lieutenant Reed's phaser near the cove. Naturally the captain was furious."

"How'd you find us?" Fingers popping out of joints. Water filling his ears. Malcolm yelling out as they hold him down ... Trip blinks and the images vanish.

"The Klingon's vessel had a slight plasma leak," Phlox explains. "Once we had the signature, it wasn't too hard to follow. The difficulty was reaching the prison block." The Denobulan's face grows somber. "Another minute's delay, and you both would have been beyond resuscitation. The entire cell was filled with water. Our only explanation for your survival is that Lieutenant Reed kept you both above the surface; he is a strong swimmer."

"Naw," Trip says feebly, shaking his head. "He'd never have kept me up for that long."

Shuddering arms and eyes that gleamed with pain. If they had tortured Malcolm the same as they did Trip, he would never have been able to keep them afloat. As it was, he'd sacrificed all of his strength. Almost for nothing.

"Well, I suppose the mystery will be addressed in your report," Phlox says eventually. "The captain won't be expecting to hear from you immediately, of course. Multiple contusions, third degree burns, fractured ribs and vertebrae... you've kept the Osmotic eel busy, Commander. Frankly, I'm surprised that Lieutenant Reed is in better shape. You two usually share the same harassment on your escapades."

"He had his share..." Trip murmurs. Cold. Malcolm was always cold afterwards. Teeth clacking. Knees knocking against one another. So many times his lips were blue after the Klingons resuscitated him. They didn't just keep him under until the count: they dunked him over and over until he was no longer breathing. He had _died_ a couple times each session. How can that be counted as anything less than Trip's injuries?

"When can I see him?" Trip asks, his voice cracking. _Does he even know that we've been rescued?_

"He's right there," Phlox says, waving the scanner to Trip's right. He braces one hand in warning as the commander swings around. "Ah-ah-ah. Stay where you are. There'll be no walking around for the next two weeks. You can see him very well from where you're sitting."

"Malcolm," Trip whispers.

The man's skin is grey; ghostly. A breathing apparatus covers his mouth and nose; not so crude as the old medical equipment that Trip saw in a museum once, sprouting with clunky wires and a loud reverberation, but still indication enough that Malcolm would be laid out in a shuttlepod, ready to be shipped back home, if not for Phlox's care. His hands are covered with stripes of red, healing skin, and his exposed feet still look fairly raw under a sheen of Phlox's home remedy of Lyssarian Desert Larvae salve. If not for the faint husk of artificial breathing, however, and the gauntness in his face and hands, he would almost appear to be resting after one more drugged occasion with the wrong female crowd.

"Has he woken up at all?" Trip asks.

"Not yet," Phlox says pragmatically, "But soon, I hope. The captain is eager to have you both back at your posts. He was just down here an hour ago, in fact. I chased him off to get some sleep. He'll want to know that you're finally coherent."

Numbly, Trip nods and tucks his splinted arms against his ribs. He's still so cold. Aching. Bewildered. _They never even interrogated us. What was the whole point behind it all?_

"Commander Tucker is awake, Captain," Phlox says into the wall panel. "Shall I tell him you're on your way?"

"Do so," the captain's voice drifts from the com.

Trip snorts. "He sounds just as tired as I feel."

"Nothing that a few days of R&R won't amend," Phlox assures him. "Might I suggest that you save your report for when you're feeling stronger, and focus on resting for now. Broken bones won't heal overnight."

"You don't have to tell me twice, Phlox," Trip says. He's starting to feel a headache coming on, and his short excursion into the conscious realm has left him heavy-limbed and exhausted. Nothing sounds better than a few more minutes of shuteye. As soon as he speaks with Captain Archer, he'll lay back for a while and close his eyes. Won't be more than a few minutes. He can wait until the captain arrives…..

* * *

It's not two minutes later when Archer strides into sickbay, his shadowed eyes immediately latching onto the two inert patients. Phlox minutely shakes his head.

"He just fell asleep again, Captain."

Shoulders heaving in a sigh, Archer ambles to the space between the bunks. "Any change in Malcolm?" he prods, even though he knows that he would have been informed the moment his tactical officer's condition fluxed.

"Nothing yet. The antibodies are still at work, Captain. I'm positive he'll pull through."

Phlox won't give him false hope; this much Archer knows. His eyes flit over Malcolm, taking in every detail: the faint scraping on his left cheek where it was rubbed against metal; the bandages where fingernails were torn away; the discoloration particularly centered around his mouth and nose; the bluish tint indicating that his body still struggles for oxygen; the slight peaks from the decontamination gel locked into his hair; the looseness of fabric that should fit comfortably around him.

The Klingons had _drowned_ him. Faithful, obstinate Malcolm, who tried to overcome his aquaphobia and reluctantly admitted the weakness to his captain. Phlox had insinuated that perhaps Malcolm had vied for time, feigning trauma so that the Klingons would focus their more violent tactics on the one officer while Reed planned their escape. It had taken every ounce of willpower for Archer to punch the computer console instead of his friend. That he would _dare_ suggest that Malcolm would simulate a phobia to avoid torture, even if it was for a good cause….

Archer draws away, aware that his hands are shaking. He grips Malcolm's hand firmly and swallows down his anger. "Get it together, Lieutenant," he says softly. "I'm expecting you back on the bridge before we reach the next outpost."

The hand within his own is cold and lax, and Malcolm makes no indication that he's aware of the captain's presence. He hasn't so much as twitched in four days.

Turning to his engineer, Archer once again runs the medical data through his head. Dislocated knee, wrenched further after the initial injury. Ligaments were practically shredded at that point. Third degree burns. Concussion. Four molars pulled. Purple flesh swelling around splintered fingers. Necessary cartilage regrowth in the nose and the spinal column. Lacerated skin. Broken ribs and bruised organs. Cracked jaw. Nerve damage in the feet and legs. Imbedded glass. Infection, coupled with water inhalation, nearly killed Trip on the operating table. How can Archer say which of his officers suffered more at the Klingons' mercy? How can he know if one or the other expressed their fears openly, drawing the attention towards himself to spare the other's pain?

The Klingon Empire refused to accept the blame for the capture and torture of his crew members. Raised in a culture built on violence and enduring pain, they did not empathize with Earth's compassion for life, nor did they claim to have any control over the rogue vessel that accosted a peaceful landing party. As for Starfleet itself, the council was still skirting around the hope of a future alliance. They would not instigate a war against the Klingons over the capture of two men.

In Archer's mind, the Klingons have already paid. Their ship was destroyed after the rescue. Every Klingon on that vessel is nothing more than space dust. They tortured his crew and they paid for it with their lives.

It's still not enough.

"I'd better see you back in the engine room soon, Trip," Archer says, smoothing a sweat-drenched lock away from the bandage knitting the commander's eyebrow. "There's no telling what's fallen apart in your absence."

His officers have a long haul ahead of them. Phlox has already warned him of what is to come: post traumatic stress; tissue regeneration; fatigue; paranoia; muscle weakness. They'll both need routine therapy, particularly Trip. Malcolm might find it hard to breathe for a while. No rigorous duties for either of them for at least the next six weeks. No firefights. No away missions.

Their suffering isn't over, not by a long shot. The rescue was only the first part. Now they'll need the support of the crew as they try to fit back into their normal lives. It won't be easy for either of them. Malcolm rarely confides in anyone, and Trip's pride will keep him rigid long after his physical wounds heal. Sometimes Archer just wants to grab the two by their collars and knock their heads together. What seems so simple to him will take months to settle for his knuckle-brained officers.

Still, he's confident that if anyone can pull through this and still keep a sane mind, it will be Trip and Malcolm. They've witnessed mercy and cruelty and tragedy during this voyage and they've never shirked away. They'll pull through.

And he'll be there for them when they need him, every step of the way.

* * *

 _"bIHnuch! Qa'Hom! petaQ!"_

Each guttural exclamative accompanies a fist slamming into his spine. Legs crumbling, Trip droops over the rig holding him upright. Thin, stinging jolts lance down to his feet. He can't feel much else below the waist.

 _"Ha'DIbaH! Ha'DIbaH!"_

Sloshing sounds are followed by the splat of a body against the floor. Ninety-six seconds followed by the interval of a single breath, carried out thrice. They've held Malcolm under the water for nearly seven minutes. He doesn't breath in a fourth time - not until they pound the water from his stomach and hold him by the back of his neck as he vomits, air whistling in his bruised throat.

"Lieutenant Reed seems to have come off easy," Phlox comments, running his scanner over Trip's bloody arms. "They didn't push dimorusian quills under _his_ nails. I suggest two days' bed rest and a therapy session with my Osmotic eel."

Trip tries to tell him that Malcolm's not fine - that he isn't breathing - but his mouth is a funnel of pain and gaping holes. He looks up desperately as door swishes open, and his heart leaps when Captain Archer strides into the room. He can just make out the Enterprise's bridge behind the captain.

"What's taking so long?" Archer says irritably. "I told you to rendezvous with the ship in two hours."

Throat closing in, Trip forces the sound past his frozen vocal chords. "Mal... Mal..."

The captain spares Malcolm a cursory glance. "He'll be fine. Get it together, Trip. We need you in engineering."

"I... c-can't!" Trip exclaims, frustration sparking at his eyes. He tries to unbend his fingers, but they're twisted and grotesque, like hunks of raw meat hanging from his swollen hands. "Help...!"

"I gave you an order, Trip." Shaking his head, Archer motions to T'Pol. "Fine. Get Malcolm in here. We'll just have to make do."

"Captain!" Trip chokes out.

Brushing off his uniform, Malcolm glances back at him and shakes his head. "It's just a bit of water, Trip."

Even as he says it, he collapses at the Klingon's feet, spasming in a filthy puddle as water streaks from his mouth and nose. Trip screams, yanking at the hands holding him prisoner, reaching helplessly for his friend.

"Commander Tucker, it's alright! Do you understand me? You're back aboard the Enterprise."

Lunging upright, Trip seizes the hand on his shoulder and yanks at the thumb. His assailant is too quick for him, and before he can roll away a hypospray is pressed into his neck.

"That will calm him," he hears dimly. "Commander Tucker, can you hear me?"

"Phlough?" Slowly the dark room washes into an off-white ceiling. Squinting at the denobulan, Trip swallows and tries again. "Phlox."

"I'm right here," the doctor reassures him. "You're in sickbay. Lieutenant Reed is recovering in the next bed. Do you remember where you are now?"

"Yeah." The sense of weakness fleeing with the dream, Trip drags himself upright and brushes his wrist over his forehead. "Did I give the captain my report?"

"Not yet. You only regained consciousness yesterday. He dropped by soon after you fell asleep."

"Missed him, huh?" He feels stronger now, if not lucid. Amazing what modern-day medicine is capable of.

"Might I suggest that you try to rest some more," Phlox advises. "You're still recuperating, and bones don't simply knit overnight."

Breathing deeply, Trip slowly releases the air and squares his shoulders. "No. Tell the captain I want to speak with him as soon as possible."

"You won't be waiting very long," Phlox mutters. He utters a string of denobulan phrases, slapping the wall panel with the frustration of an overwhelmed, put upon doctor. It seems that Trip hasn't been the only one making demands as of late.

* * *

"They didn't ask us anything. It's like they just wanted something to punch around."

There's very little influx in Trip's voice as he describes the last two weeks. From the first session to their rescue, he feels as though he's recounting a dream.

"I don't know why they singled out Malcolm for the water torture," he says. He grits his teeth when Archer's eyes flash. "They weren't taking it easy in him, Captain. Whatever people are saying, he didn't leave the fall to me and he ain't no coward."

"I didn't imply anything of the kind." There's pain in Archer's eyes that Tri's never seen. Failure, he reads. Failure and disappointment, but not in his crew.

Leaning forward, Archer rests his elbows on his knees and fiddles with a datapad, clearly debating something. At length he sits back and says somberly, "Malcolm is aquaphobic."

For an instant Trip can't think of a response. "Wait... He's scared of water?" Malcolm Reed, explorer of coves and tide pools, descendant of a fine navy heritage, is genuinely phobic of what should be his natural element? "You're kidding me, right?"

"This stays between you and me," Archer snaps. "He's not afraid of water; he has a phobia of drowning."

Recoiling, Trip opens his mouth - and shuts it without a word. The Klingons had held him under the water... how many times? Forty? Eighty?

 _Ninety-six seconds..._

"He ... he never said anything." Trip finally manages to speak. "Not once while we were held captive."

"It's not something he's proud of," Archer explains quietly. "I thought that in space he would never have to worry about it."

Trip gives a hoarse, broken laugh. "All that water pouring around us, and me too crippled to save myself... He could have held on longer, you know. He could've let me drown and kept his head above the water. He didn't seem so scared for himself when he was boosting me."

"Phlox _was_ wondering about the muscle damage in Malcolm's arms and legs..." Archer hints, silently requesting the rest of the story.

Blowing out a pursed breath, Trip adjusts his bum leg and settles awkwardly against the bunk's headrest. "It all went down when the ship was attacked. They put us in the same cell together..."

* * *

Despite Phlox's threats of a sedative, Trip doesn't want to sleep. Malcolm's vitals have steadily grown stronger. He's off the breathing apparatus, and a healthy color has returned to his extremities, but he hasn't stirred. Trip wants to be there when he finally does.

"It might be hours yet, Commander," Phlox cautions him. "Perhaps another day."

"I ain't tired yet," Trip insists. He feels like his brain is pressing the restart button every five seconds, and the aching in his bones is a tad too persistent for the analgesics to kick in, but he isn't ready to call it a night. "Any minute now."

"I could have the captain order you to rest," Phlox comments, clearly vexed that his most stubborn patient has been feigning coherence for the last five hours. "You can hardly stay awake, even without a sedative. It won't make any difference if you sleep for a few hours."

 _It will if he wakes up and I'm conked out over here,_ Trip argues silently. He has to know what's going through Malcolm's head. Even more so now than before, he needs to be there; if only to reassure the lieutenant that it's okay to be afraid of something. As far as Trip's concerned, Malcolm proved himself brave enough for them both.

"Suit yourself," Phlox says as Trip stoically ignores him. "You'll nod off eventually. If you need something for the pain, let me know."

"Yeah, sure," Trip grunts. He twists sideways, massaging the tender ligaments around his knee cap. Dang, it still hurts nearly as much as when the Klingons first twisted it.

"If you keep prodding your injuries, it'll be weeks before you walk again," Phlox warns him.

Rolling his eyes, Trip flops back against the headrest. He blinks hard, then forces his eyes wide open. Five more minutes. He can hold out that long...

* * *

 _"baktag!"_ A driving heel crunches one knuckle. Trip can hear someone hollering past the white flash that's blinding his brain. The haze lifts, leaving him crawling on the floor, his mangled hand tucked against his ribs.

"Don't let them do it again." A dripping Malcolm sits cross-legged in front of him, his head lowered in shame. "Don't let them put me in there."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Trip says, gagging as water suddenly fills his mouth. "Nothing... y'can... help..."

Malcolm tilts his head, and his calm, blue eyes are impassive as he watches Trip splutter. "Are you quite alright, Commander?"

* * *

Hacking, Trip yanks the corner of a pillowcase out of his mouth and makes a face when drool trails over the fabric. _Ugh_... Thank heavens T'Pol isn't around. Falling back onto the mattress, he stares at the wall over Malcolm's bed. Five days since he first woke up, and there hasn't been a peep from the lieutenant. Trip's starting to wonder if he'll ever wake up, or if the water's finally gotten the best of...

Dropping his eyes to the next bunk, Trip loses his train of thought. His jaw drops down as cool, blue eyes assess him. There's a twinkle of amusement in those tired orbs as Malcolm whispers, "Thought you'd never wake up."

Heedless of the doctor's orders, Trip scrambles over the bunk and sprawls against the wall at the lieutenant's bedside. "I thought you were a goner," he says giddily. "You sure took your sweet ol' time getting back here."

Malcolm cringes slightly, like he's not sure what to make of that remark. "How long?" he asks. His voice is still as rough as cracking plaster.

"Over a week," Trip says softly. "How do you feel?"

"Lousy." The word is ejected with a grimace. Malcolm's eyes are hollow with memories, and Trip has to wonder if he looks the same. "What took them so bloody long?

Huffing, Trip eases himself down to the floor. "I never thought they'd get there. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been shipped off to Panama City in a shuttlepod." He picks at a stray wire in the cast supporting his wrist before posing the question. "How come you didn't tell me you were aquaphobic?"

He doesn't see Malcolm's expression, but he hears the hesitation, followed by a dismayed murmur. "The captain told you?"

"I kinda bumbled into it," Trip admits uneasily. "After two weeks on that vessel, it made more sense."

"I suppose you would have known eventually..." Malcolm says bitterly.

Trip doesn't blame him for clamming up. It's hard enough having your weakness exploited, without a friend constantly witnessing your humiliation. "You kept saying ninety-six seconds," he says detachedly, like it hadn't been the count running through his own head every session. "What was so important about that number?"

Flustered, Malcolm says offhandedly, "I ... knew I could hold out for longer. It was the Klingons who panicked when they threw us in the cell together."

"That was panic?" Trip exclaims, glancing up at his fellow officer. He doesn't know whether it's funny or tragic that Malcolm blushes as he listens. "I thought they just wanted to kill us both at once."

"I might have instigated our joined confinement," Malcolm admits. "I made them believe that I'd rather be shot than drowned."

Something doesn't add up. Slowly, reluctantly, Trip asks, "Was any of that... put on?"

Malcolm's expression stills. "You mean my panic," he guesses. "You think that I made them believe I was afraid of drowning so that they would ignore me during the sessions."

Trip doesn't want to say anything, but he figures his silence is answer enough.

Sighing, Malcolm turns to face the ceiling. "Of course. I suppose everyone on board knows that _Malcolm the Fearful_ managed to evade the worst of the Klingon attack."

"I never said anything like that!" Trip says, aghast.

"Then what did you mean?" Malcolm retorts.

"I _mean_ , what's the big deal about ninety-six?" Trip states. "The Klingons weren't the only one counting! Something about that number gave you resolve when they turned the pipes on!"

He can see the tension in Malcolm's face: the reluctance to divulge precious information. Tersely the Englishman explains, "When I was a child, I was trapped under a sinking life pod. I lost consciousness. When I finally came to, my grandfather said that I had been under the water for ninety-six seconds. Obviously I can hold my breath for longer now, but it's a long time to be immersed when you're thinking about..." He shakes himself and says brusquely, "When they started counting it just brought everything back."

"Well, the cap was pretty mad when he found out," Trip says, backing down. He tries to express in his voice that it's alright; that no one's blaming Malcolm for anything. "Obviously the Klingons did a good job assessing both of our weaknesses."

"I was prepared to be tortured," Malcolm says jaggedly. "I wasn't afraid of that."

"You didn't seem so scared of the water when we were locked up, either," Trip states. "Any time you could've cut me loose and no one would've been the wiser."

For a few minutes Malcolm is silent. Trip hopes that he's pondering things and not wallowing in self-appointed disgrace. Finally Malcolm murmurs, "I had to do it. I can hold my breath for two-hundred and eighty seconds under water, but I couldn't have kept us both afloat for very long."

"You knew they would run those pipes?" Trip wonders.

Malcolm scoffs. "Why else would I have convinced them to throw us in there together? They would have shot us, you know. Then the captain _would_ have found a couple of corpses."

Smirking, Trip shakes his head. "So you took the chance of getting locked up in a box that was rapidly filling up with water, with nothing more than a showerhead to cling onto, and a crippled crewmate hanging over your back, and you think we're accusing you of being scared of a little water?"

" _Yes!_... No... Wasn't that what you were implying?" Malcolm snaps.

"I'm saying that for a man faced with drowning for real, you handled it pretty well," Trip says. He watches Malcolm's face, hoping that the man will look down and see the sincerity in his eyes. "No one could've dreamed that you were aquaphobic. Seems to me that you were the hero of the operation."

Properly disconcerted, Malcolm gives a dismissive shrug. "It gave us a chance," he mumbles. "Better to face my time than to have it taken away from me."

Chewing his lip, Trip finishes dethreading the wire as he considers his next move. Malcolm speaks first.

"For once..." the lieutenant contemplates, "I felt completely in control. Perhaps that's how my great-uncle felt, when he locked himself in the engine room right before his ship went down. It was my decision whether I would live or... if someone else would have that chance." Sighing pensively, he reveals, "For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid."

"So you're rethinking the navy?" Trip quips.

With an honest, rasping chuckle, Malcolm shakes his head, and the tension in the air instantly evaporates. "Never. I think I'll leave the water to the dolphins from now on."

And in Trip's eyes, that's perfectly all right. One instance of drowning is enough for him to convince him stay out of the water for a _looong_ time. He figures the captain can put up with two aquaphobic crew members for a little while. At least it'll keep them both out of trouble on water-locked planets.

Until the next crisis is addressed, that is. "So... how long do you think before either of us feels comfortable taking a shower again?"


End file.
